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On the walls were framed Coca-Cola ads and severely posed
photographs of family groupings. From a battery-operated record
player crooned, improbably, an American twang: Put your sweet lips
a little closer to the phone. Thomas was offered a glass of warm beer
that he drank straight down. Mary laughed and poured him another.
He tried not to look too surprised when she told him that she, too,
was a poet, and that she had a degree in forensic medicine from the
university at Kampala. She  d retreated to the family shamba, she
explained, for the birth of her first child, who was then a month old.
She asked him why he was in the country. He was in the country, he
said, because Regina was, and Regina was in the country because
she had a grant to study the psychological effects of sub-Saharan
diseases on Kenyan children under ten years old. The grant was
with UNICEF. From time to time, Thomas noticed, Ndegwa
retreated to the back of the house to speak with men who had come
especially to see him, and Thomas vaguely understood it had some-
thing to do with politics.
 My husband says you are a wonderful poet.
 Your husband is very kind.
 In your country, writing poems is not dangerous work?
 In my country, writing poems isn t considered work.
 In my country, such a thing is sometimes very dangerous. But you
are not writing of my country?
 No. I don t know it well enough.
 Ah, said Mary enigmatically, patting him on the knee. And you
will not.
Two sisters brought in a sufuria filled with pieces of burnt goat.
A leg bone was sticking out. Ndegwa sliced the crispy black meat on
a wooden table with a machete and passed bowls of the glistening
goat around the room. Thomas held his plate in his lap until he
watched Mary use her fingers. The grease on the rhinestone was
fantastic.
The eating was painful. Ndegwa presented Thomas with a bowl
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The Last Time They Met
of choice morsels reserved for the guest of honor. He explained that
these were the goat s organs  the heart, lungs, liver and brain 
and that they were sweet. To encourage Thomas, Ndegwa drank
the raw blood which had been drained from the goat when it was
slaughtered. Refusing the delicacies was not, Thomas already knew
from having been in the country half a year, an option  not with-
out embarrassment to himself and insult to Ndegwa. Thomas didn t
care whether he himself was embarrassed, but he guessed he didn t
want to insult his teacher. His gorge rose. He stuck his fingers into
the pot, closed his eyes, and ate.
Another African experience, he knew at once, that could never
be described.
After a time, Mary rose and said they must all excuse her because
she was uncomfortable and needed to nurse her baby. Ndegwa
laughed and added, Her breasts are so big, she is now a bent tree.
The good-byes, Thomas remembered, had taken an hour.
 Now you know where to find us, you will come again, Ndegwa
said to Thomas when he was leaving.
 Yes, thank you.
 Don t get scarce.
 No. I won t.
 We will have two goats next time.
 Perfect, Thomas said.

 When will the arrest be? Thomas asked Ndegwa at the café.
 In a week? Two weeks? In five days? I do not know. Ndegwa
flipped his hand back and forth.
 Is a poem worth dying for?
Ndegwa licked his lips. I am a symbol to many who are like me. I
am a better symbol arrested, where my people can hear of me and read of
me, than if I flee.
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Anita Shreve
Thomas nodded, trying to comprehend the political act. Trying
to understand the reasoning of a man who would put himself and his
family at risk for an idea. All through history men had died in droves
for ideas. Whereas he couldn t think of a single idea worth dying for.
He wanted to tell Ndegwa that his work was too good, that it
shouldn t be sacrificed for politics. But who was he to say? In this
country of so much suffering, who could afford the luxury of art?
 Stay with Regina and me, Thomas said. They ll never look for
you in Karen.
 We shall see, Ndegwa said. Noncommittal, having committed
himself elsewhere. As good as arrested already.
The big man stood. Thomas, shaken, rose with him. A feeling of
helplessness overtook him. Tell me what I can do, Thomas said.
Ndegwa looked away and then back again. You will go to visit
my wife.
 Yes, Thomas said. Of course.
 This you will promise me.
 Yes. And did he see then, on Ndegwa s face, the tiniest flicker
of fear?

Thomas paid for the beers and left the Thorn Tree. He felt dizzy
and disoriented. It was the beer on an empty stomach. Or Ndegwa s
news. A man approached him, naked but for a paper bag. The bag
was slit up the sides to allow for legs, and the man was holding the
two openings closed with his fists. He looked as though he were
wearing diapers. His hair was dirty with bits of different-colored
lint. He stopped in front of Thomas  the American, the easy
mark. Thomas emptied his pockets into a pouch the man had slung
around his neck.
He needed to find Regina.
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The Last Time They Met
He passed the street that led to the Hotel Gloria, where he and
Regina had spent their first night in the country, not realizing it was
a brothel. The sink had been stopped up with a brown matter he
hadn t wanted to investigate, and when they d woken, they d been
covered with fleas. A woman was passing him now, carrying a child
on her back, the baby s eyes clouded with flies. Thomas needed a
drink of water. Colors seemed louder now, more garish; sounds
bolder and brighter than they d been an hour ago. He remembered
the first time he  d seen a long red trail of shiny ants and how he  d
realized too late they were crawling up his leg. At Gil Gil, a naked
woman had lain motionless on the asphalt paving of the courtyard.
Naked men had hung from barred windows. They had spit at his
feet. Why were so many without clothing in this country? The
vision in his right eye was replacing itself with hundreds of bright
moving dots. Not a migraine, please, he thought  not now.
schoolgirl dies after circumcision. He remembered the night
express to Mombasa, the rhythm of the rails sexually intoxicating.
He and Regina had shared a narrow bunk, and it had been a tender
night between them, a kind of truce. He  d been reading Maurice, by
E. M. Forster. Where had he left the book? He  d like to read it
again. Kenyans hated homosexuals, never mentioned them, as
though they simply didn t exist. Rich was coming, and maybe
Thomas would let him chew the twigs. What had his mother writ-
ten? The gas lines were terrible. three americans beheaded.
Would the car still be there? Or had he not paid enough? Pots and
clothing were for sale in the street. A storefront window advertised
a Cuisinart. Regina would be seriously worried now. He  d had
Welsh rarebit yesterday at the Norfolk, and in his imagination he
could still taste it. In reality, he could taste the Tusker. Words. They
haunted him in the night. Once twenty lions had walked past him.
He had stood frozen, at the side of the car, unable even to open the
door to get in. Regina screaming silently from within. They d gone
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Anita Shreve
up to Keekorok with a low battery and four bald tires. The gearshift
had come off in his hand. Another time, on a safari, when everyone
had left camp, he  d stayed behind to write. He  d been attacked by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]